Parenting

I forgive you for your constant criticisms and put downs of me. I now know that you hated yourself, and were only able to see the negative aspects of others. It somehow made your failings and short comings seem smaller. I understand that making other people feel badly made you feel better.

I forgive you for focusing so much on my weight, even though you filled the house with junk food, sugar, and pizza. I now know that you had your own issues with food. You felt better about indulging when I did it with you, and it gave you a chance to unleash the guilt and shame you felt towards yourself onto another. Somehow, if I overate with you, it made you feel not as bad. By telling me I was too fat, you were able to safely express the feelings you felt towards yourself.

I forgive you for constantly trying to control and micromanage my life. I now know that you felt your life had been spiraling out of control for a long, long time. By clamping down on me, you were able to feel you had a handle on things without making any difficult changes in your life.

I forgive you for making me always feel inferior to everyone and everything. I now know you struggled with feelings of self-worth, but weren’t strong enough to overcome them. I understand how that can make a person feel like they’re drowning, and without hope.

I forgive you for making me believe that my thoughts and feelings didn’t matter. I now know you felt that you didn’t matter, and you had no idea how to express it. I understand you projected your feelings onto me. I know how you had been stepped on by life.

I forgive you for making me feel unloved. I now know you had no experience of self-love. I can also imagine how difficult it was to cope with the fact that your husband preferred your eldest daughter over yourself. I understand you didn’t feel loved for most of your life, and you felt I had taken the only person who had any chance of really loving you. I forgive you for making it obvious that you favored my siblings over me. I now know you felt that I received more “love” than I deserved. I know how that hurt you. I know you didn’t know what to do.

I forgive you for not protecting me when you should have. I now know that you, yourself, were a victim of your choices and circumstances. I understand you were too weak to shield me from the dangers of this world.

I forgive you for making me think all of the above was my fault. I now know these problems were a direct result of the unresolved issues in your life. In your soul. This was always about you, and never about me. I understand I was a child with no control, and you were the adult.

I forgive you, and I pity you. I am strong. I have overcome. You are not. You cannot. You truly are a prisoner. May you find peace one day.

“I guess we are who we are / Headlights shining in the dark night I drive on…” ~Eminem ‘Headlights’

This is something I have been thinking about a lot lately. Anytime someone asks me to explain a reference I said I understood, or to define a word they don’t believe I know the meaning to, I feel attacked and demeaned. I feel like the person asking must think I’m stupid. Why else would they ask me to explain how or what I know?

When I was younger, probably between the ages of 11 and 13, I watched a movie with my birth family. It was that cute Tim Allen Christmas movie called “The Santa Clause”. I’m not going to go over the synopsis of this movie. If you aren’t familiar with it and really want to know, you can look it up. Anyway, there is a scene on a roof shortly after Tim Allen becomes Santa. He had been driving the sleigh, and stopped on a roof to deliver toys to the children in the house below. When he reached into the sleigh to grab the bag of toys, it started to float, and soon Tim Allen was hovering a few feet off the roof, holding onto the bag of toys. I don’t know why it was floating. The magic of Santa, I guess. Tim Allen’s son was with him on the roof. He started yelling for his dad to come back, and expressing his general concern. Tim Allen told him not to worry because he “had lived through the sixties.”

When that movie came out back in the mid-90’s, my birth family watched it over and over. It really is a decent movie. Family friendly without being overly sappy. No cussing or violence, but still enjoyable to for an adult to watch.

We had probably seen the movie a time or two when what I am about to mention took place. When the scene came on with Tim Allen on the roof, floating with the bag of toys, I laughed after the line where he says he lived through the sixties. As soon as I laughed, my mother spun around and glared at me. “Do you even know what that means?!?” she barked at me. I didn’t understand why she would seem upset about this question. And I DID know what the line meant. I remember thinking that Tim Allen said it was ok that he was flying, implying he was used to it, because of the drugs he had done back in the day. Instead of responding thusly, I instead told my mother that no, I did not understand. She scoffed and turned around.

I cannot tell you how many times that memory floats around in my head. It was really just last week that I realized why I become so defensive when asked to explain how I understand a reference, or to define a word it’s thought that I don’t know. Every time I feel like I am being tested. I feel like the person asking me is CONVINCED that there is no way I could know something, so they are trying to make me PROVE it. I feel that it is a direct attack to my intelligence.

On another note, I also recently realized the reason I fully believe everyone thinks I am stupid and is questioning my intelligence is because that is how my birth family has always (and I mean ALWAYS) treated me. But that is a post for another day.

I have read a few people’s blogs over the past week or so that mention child abuse. Two acknowledged that what they experienced was physical abuse, but, if I recall, there was one who made light of the abuse done to themselves. I wish I had saved the blogs because I’m a little fuzzy on the details. I believe the person was saying something along the lines of what they experienced not being abuse because of the instrument of choice. This person thought what they were beaten with wasn’t serious enough of a weapon, so they didn’t see it as abuse.

That got me thinking about my childhood, and the physical manner in which my siblings and I were punished. I remember being chased with fly swatters (Don’t be fooled – those things HURT), yard sticks, and a red metal spoon, which was my mother’s favorite weapon. She claims the spoon wasn’t metal, even though it left oval-shaped welts on my legs. I suppose it couldn’t have been metal since she broke it when she was using it on my brother. She went through a lot of yardsticks and other big kitchen spoons that way, too.

My mother would claim she was doing nothing wrong and justify her actions by telling us horror stories of how her father would use a thick leather belt and whip her and her siblings. I say abuse is abuse, no matter what weapon you prefer.

I’m not against spanking children. I think it can be very effective, if done correctly. I don’t think it should be done with an instrument other than one’s hand, and I don’t think it should ever be done in anger. When I was in high school, I was friends with a married couple who had three small boys at the time. Whenever the boys needed to be disciplined, one of the parents would tell the boy to go to his room so the parent would have time to let go of any anger they felt. When the parent was sufficiently calm, they would talk to the boy, explain why it was necessary to spank him, tell him they loved him, and then spank him twice on the bottom with their hand.

My mother may disagree with my memory of the physical discipline she administered, but I would have to point to the picture I drew in school in first grade as proof. I drew a picture of one of my parents standing at the bottom of the stairs with their mouth open and angry words coming out (yelling). The other parent was standing near me, holding what looked like a long thick stick. It was actually supposed to be the paddle that my paternal grandfather gave my father on his wedding day. I know, I know. I come from great stock. Anyway, I got in a LOT of trouble for drawing that picture, even though at the time I had no idea I had done anything wrong. We had been asked to draw a picture of our family. That is what I drew. I would say there are significant problems if a six-year old child draws a picture of one parent yelling and the other parent coming after them with a paddle when asked to illustrate their family.

Like this:

This is totally how I’m feeling right now. People just wants to use me for something…most likely their entertainment as they mess with my head. I’m not worried, they’ll get their’s…and I hope I’m there. This is dedicated to those folks in VA. You know who you are. LMACO

Lyrics are below.

I am an opportunity and I knock so softly
Sometimes I get loud when I wish everybody’d just
get off me
So many players you’d think I was a ball game
Its every man for themself, there are no
team mates
This life gets lonely when everybody wants
something
This might have been your fateBut they’ll get their’s eventually And I hope I’m there

Surrounded by familiar faces without names
None of them know me or want to share my pain
And they only wish to bask in my light, then fade
away
To win my love, to them a game
To watch me live my life in pain
When all is done and the glitter fades, fades
awayThey’ll get their’s eventually And I hope I’m there

I drank your poison cuz you told me its wine
Shame on you if you fool once
Shame on me if you fool me twice
I didn’t know the priceYou’ll get yours eventually

So what good am I to you if I can’t be broken? You’ll get yours, yes you’ll get yours Eventually

If someone was hurling horrible, unthinkable accusations at you, wouldn’t you respond? Especially if it was a terrible thing you were being accused of that you didn’t even do? I know I would! If someone accused me of something that wasn’t accurate, I would stand up in a heartbeat and deny it.

I just find it very very odd that my birth family found my blog and has been reading it, they know that I know they read it, and still absolute silence on the sexual abuse issue.

I have written several posts just putting out ponderings of possible sexual abuse. Then, in two posts last week I straight up accused my father of sexually abusing me, and I commented that my mother knew about it, and may have even taken part herself. Then, to make sure they didn’t miss it, I tweeted those posts to my cousin. He is a pastor. He is also very close with my mother’s mother. My grandmother likes to start trouble throughout that family, and I’m sure she leapt at the chance to spread THAT juicy news!

I haven’t heard anything on the subject from any member of that family. Even my cousin that I tweeted chose to remain silent.

Now, I know that I ended contact with the whole lot of those worthless lumps. I just really expected to find an email in my trash folder (All their emails go straight to Trash, do no pass Go, do not collect $100), explaining how I am obviously “troubled” to make such accusations. Or a comment on one of those posts. I know I would have said something long ago if I had been accused of doing such a thing to a person who was entrusted to my care. Even if it WAS true, I wouldn’t want people believing it! I would fall all over myself to make sure my name wasn’t linked to the sexual abuse of my daughter.

I was really wanting to send an email to my mother and father the other day. Directly pointing my finger at them. NAMING their sin. EXPOSING them. Jay talked me out of it. He told me that all it would do is cause me to have expectations that I KNEW would not be met. I have gone to my birth parents many times with issues I have regarding the way they have treated me. Each time was met with denial and mocking. I walked away from each conversation feeling like a stupid liar who wasn’t important enough to be validated by her own birth family.

I suppose I don’t need to worry about having that conversation with my birth parents. I know that, when the time is right, they will be judged and found guilty. God will take care of all that for me one day. And they should fear His judgement and wrath far more than mine.

I am a middle child. I am two years and one month younger than my brother. I am one month shy of being five years older than my sister. The experts argue back and forth as to whether or not birth order affects personality and future behavior. I think it absolutely does. I feel how I was treated as a middle child directly contributed to my having borderline personality disorder. I have to tell myself I was treated the way I was because I was a middle child. Otherwise that confirms my deepest fear of being a total piece of shit and completely unlovable.

Wikipedia states that having middle child syndrome is akin to having an identity crisis. It “…commonly affects children who were born with an equivalent number of older and younger siblings. Middle children are often ignored by their parents who give more attention to their older and younger siblings. They are often compared to or chastised for not being like their elder siblings, or for not being a better example for their younger siblings. These factors usually create feelings of neglect, loneliness, and unimportance.”

Wow. So, middle children that don’t have parents who know how to properly juggle multiple children end up being ignored. It seems when they do receive attention, it is to point out how they are not as good as their older or younger sibling. Feelings of neglect, loneliness, and unimportance? That sounds like a recipe for BPD to me!

There is a really great article I found on some parent site. I really just wanted to cut and paste the entire thing, but I suppose I will have to settle for including the link here, instead. This article starts by jumping right in and stating that being the middle child could very well affect one’s personality, as birth order has been known to play a major role in the personality traits and other characteristics that children develop. This article goes on to say that the middle child tends to feel like they don’t belong, and struggle to find their place, both in their family, and in the world at large. The older and younger child most usually receive the most attention, so the middle child feels unwanted and not as important as the others. They begin to feel inferior to others, and believe that their thoughts, opinions, and contributions do not hold much weight. These feelings of worthlessness and inferiority can obviously lead to depression, among other things. Something else this article mentioned that hadn’t before occurred to me was that middle children tend to be more withdrawn in social situations. They prefer to spend time with themselves – as they have grown accustomed to doing this in a family where they feel ignored – and often don’t know how to properly interact with others due to their loner-like behavior and extreme shyness.

Now, of course, not everyone is the same. Not everyone who experiences the constant downfalls of being a middle child will develop borderline personality disorder. Not everyone who is a middle child will even have any kinds of these severe emotional problems. It’s hard for me to imagine, but I’m told there really are parents out there who love and care for their children. Even their children who were born smack dab in the middle. Some parents are actually capable of treating each of their children the same. Well, not the SAME, but with the same amount of love, attention, and respect as they give their other children.

Many sufferers of BPD experience sad, lonely, unhealthy childhoods. Some common denominators are usually repeated abuse (be it emotional, physical, or sexual), inconsistent and unsupportive care, early separation from one or both parents, familial neglect, and having caregivers who invalidate thoughts and emotions. People with borderline personality disorder are conditioned to care for and comfort themselves. They learn to keep their real thoughts and feelings hidden and instead become a chameleon, adapting to whatever situation they happen to find themselves in. They struggle with feelings of self-loathing, inferiority, and low self-worth.

I can see a lot of connections between being a middle child – or, more specifically, having middle child syndrome – and having borderline personality disorder. In both cases, the person feels less than. In both cases, the person has to learn to adapt to abandonment or neglect. Both feel ignored and invalidated. Both long for love and attention while simultaneously struggling with trust issues. Both learn to keep their true thoughts and feelings hidden because they know their emotions are either ignored or flat-out unwanted by their supposed loved ones.

I know that the causes of borderline personality disorder are debated, and it’s very likely that there is more than one cause, but I firmly believe that having a childhood like one described above immensely increases one’s chance of having this disorder. Whenever a child is neglected, unloved, abused in any way, invalidated, criticized and put down on a regular basis, they run the risk of becoming an unhealthy adult with emotional issues. I haven’t been able to find much online about the relationship between being a middle child and having BPD, but I wonder what percentage of BPD sufferers were middle children? I wonder if any studies have been done to test this? Again, I wasn’t able to locate much on the internet about this topic, so my guess is that no major studies have been done. Definitely an interesting thought for the future, though.